Same Love
by blacktearsinrubyeyes
Summary: When Mary and John bought a young Castiel to their homes they didnt expect their son to be such good friends with him. Castiel ,a boy who thinks himself as a monster, ever be able to find his knight in shining armor.Will his knight be his ? the summary is not great but i hope you give it a try.AU
1. Chapter 1

hay guys so this is my first destiel fanfic and its also my first attempt at anything like this fic. i hope you guys enjoy it.I think it will just be like a two shot.I also dont have a beta so this fic hasn't been Beta ed hence all mistakes are mine .

I hope you enjoy the fic.

i don't own Supernatural but i like to think i'm a part of the spn family.

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**Same love**

**chapter 1**

When the Winchester brought him into their home, eight-year-old Castiel thought it too big. He was so terrified of the high ceilings and echoing spaces in their elegant foyer, so bright and sterile. He thought to himself, _there are so many things to break_. Vases and little figurines littered shelves and tabletops, and Castiel was well aware that he'd never been very graceful. So he pressed his arms flat to his sides and watched the toes of his old sneakers as they led him through the house, up to his new bedroom. He threw himself into it with much relief. His ruby red room was comfortably devoid of all the little, delicate porcelain and glass trinkets that he'd passed on the way up the winding staircase.

His mother had died while giving birth to him and after that his father was never himself again. He kept blaming him for his mother's death and after a while Castiel began to think of it like that as well. Once after leaving home for days his father came back and called Mr. Winchester and asked him to take Castiel in for a while. His father and Mr. Winchester were best of friends and so he had readily agreed. After this my father had begun to plan to just give me away to them with full consent and by some miracle I was here.

He never thought he'd miss home, but that first night, he definitely did. Of course he didn't miss his fathers daily beating when he was in the house and empty fridge. he missed the comfort his bed had provided when he had a sore hand or bloody lips , he missed his hiding place beneath the stairs but most of all he missed looking at the big picture of his mom and dad that was still hanging on top of the fireplace.

But in his new home everything was new somehow unlived in. The red of the walls suddenly resembled blood. Plus, there were so many places for monsters to hide in the large house, little nooks and crannies behind furniture and tables.

He hid beneath the bed on the following day when Mr. and Mrs. Winchester announced his doctor appointment. He was terrified of needles, had only just been released from the hospital where they had constantly poked and prodded him.

The wooden floor he laid against was cold and comforting, and he could watch the door through the space allotted to him. After so long, it opened, and little feet pattered through. He inspected the shoes—brown and clean—and recoiled as they neared him.

The blanket was suddenly yanked up, and the intruder crouched, ducking his reddish hair to the floor with a patient, piercingly green stare. Castiel's eyes were wide with awe as he gazed back at this other boy, having never been around someone so clearly his own age since he was much smaller.

"Isn't it dark under there?" the boy suddenly asked, and when Castiel didn't answer—for he was far too stunned to do so—the boy shrugged, and simply joined him. He slid along the hardwood and lay beside Castiel, resting his cheek on his arm as he stared at him. He whispered in his soft, boyish voice, "I thought monsters hid under beds?" and pursed his little lips contemplatively.

Castiel laughed. It was so trilling, yet also, oddly hollow. When his laughter faded, he stared at the boy's face and traced the contours with his frightened eyes. He tried to convey in a gaze how he always felt: dark, cold air tickling his toes and climbing his pant legs as he lay motionless in the dark.

Castiel _was_ the monster, because monsters were never afraid of anything—_even needles_.

But Dean—as he introduced himself—remained laying with him until Castiel finally conceded and emerged. For if Castiel was a monster, then this Dean was a white, shining knight, so brave to crawl beneath a bed and speak to the monster himself.

Dean stood with his chin high as they both finally emerged and then took Castiel's hand. He had an impishly crooked grin that enamored Castiel. Dean then promptly paraded Castiel around their big house, so proud and accomplished that he'd achieved what the adults had thought impossible.

When Dean's Mom, smiling and jovial at Castiel's ultimate emergence asked, Dean informed her matter-of-factly, "Castiel can't go to the doctor. He's playing with me today."

And that was that.

He showed Castiel his books and toy soldiers and electronic video games. Castiel had never seen electronic video games before. Dean—always the selfless creature—wanted to give his every toy to Castiel, and after many days spent playing with him, took to leaving his things in Castiel's room. Mary would find Dean's expensive devices there and ask, "What if you wanted to play with it later, Dean?"

It made Castiel uncomfortable to see his new best friend's squandering and neglectful behavior admonished. He feared Dean's punishment. Thus, Castiel would clutch his hand and tremble in fear of seeing John strike the boy. This had been a common punishment for Castiel before he'd come into the Cullen house.

A _very_ common punishment.

The first time he reacted in this way—shoved Dean behind him and gazed fearfully into Mary's bewildered eyes—he begged, "I stole his toys. Hit me instead." And then Castiel waited for Mary's fury, expected her to go downstairs and call her husband home from work to administer Castiel's punishment himself.

But instead, she stepped forward with teary eyes. This alarmed Castiel, and he flinched instinctively, incapable of knowing that she only wanted to embrace him. It was then that she _did_ go downstairs to call her husband, and Castiel—frantic and scared—attempted to slide himself underneath his bed, to become the monster that wouldn't even fear John and his belts and needles.

But Dean didn't allow him. Dean seemed to understand more than Castiel, and was sad as he led him to lay _on_ the bed, instead of _beneath_ it. They curled up and Dean pressed himself close to Castiel, caressed his hair as he cried and shook in fear. They were clutched tightly that afternoon, Castiel's little sobs muffled by Dean's grey shirt as Dean shushed him.

So tired from their abridged day of playing, they fell asleep in that position.

And this was how Mr. and Mrs. Winchester found them: legs and arms all tangled and entwined like vines around a picket fence as they slept peacefully. They didn't dare disturb them, and Castiel awoke feeling much better when he realized that he wasn't waking alone.

The little boys never slept alone again.

At nights, Dean came to Castiel and in return, must have gained something—though Castiel never understood why Dean didn't grow bored of just laying there in the dark with him while he acted like a scardey cat. Sometimes they'd quietly play games or use black markers to write on Castiel's walls. Mary had encouraged him to do so when she'd found him tracing words into the red paint with his fingertip, a small, focused smile adorning his lips. The boys' tiny whispers echoed and embedded themselves within those walls at night, writing little snippets of tactical strategies utilized by their action figures.

They were inseparable by default. Castiel watched Dean's wide smiles with wonder and held him unlike a normal boy would have, arms always around his little waist or shoulders. And Dean touched Castiel in foreign ways. He'd pet his hair and hold his hand, and Castiel liked it. It never made Castiel feel like a puppy that had been brought home in offering to the lonely nephew, even though he'd already come to the realization that this was likely the case.

Dean made him feel loved.

Years went by with their predictable routines of waking and playing and going to grade school and falling asleep coiled around one another, and Castiel didn't question his feelings. It was the only real friendship he'd ever known. Dean himself rarely socialized with the other children on the playground at school, instead opting to plant himself beside Castiel in the sand beneath the monkey bars. It was here that they'd eat Mary's extravagant bagged lunches, pearly teeth biting into shiny red apples and their giggles regarding the girls with cooties who fawned over Dean's messy hair by yanking it.

The other children eventually accepted that neither would join their groups on the swingsets.

But they were growing older as the years passed, summers coming and going and climbing the ranks of their grade school with one another. Shoes were outgrown, pants became too short, and odd things began happening to Castiel's emotions.

Dean was Castiel's home. He'd grown attached to him in ways that no one his own age could comprehend. For the longest time, Castiel could not eat or sleep or walk outside without knowing Dean's immediate whereabouts.

One day, Dean went out to the river behind the property. He left Castiel behind because he'd been bathing, and Dean was always impatient. Castiel had told him to wait, that he'd help him catch the tadpoles for their school project, but Dean went, awkward feet trodding through the murky trees to the riverbank alone.

Castiel emerged from the bedroom and searched the house for him, growing panicked when he realized that Dean was no longer inside. He couldn't understand the way in which his breathing grew labored, or why his pulse raced and his vision went blurry. Castiel ran out of the house into the backyard, in such a hurry to get to the riverbank that he tripped over branches and scuffed his knees. He didn't care. He stood up and continued his path, eyes wide and frightened with every second that he couldn't see his friend and know he was okay.

Castiel had always feared something would happen to Dean—that monsters would defeat his white knight. Dean had always been sheltered. Castiel knew that worse evils in this world existed beyond the trivial school yard trickery that Dean was accustomed to.

Slipping into the mud of the riverbank, Castiel spotted the shine of Dean's red hair, his pant legs rolled up as he crouched in the water, dipping a glass jar beneath the surface to capture the slimy tadpoles.

Castiel wanted to run in after him, but he was afraid and didn't know how to swim. He was happy just knowing Dean was alright, and as the boy turned to him, a wide small on his face as he exclaimed, "Caught six!" Castiel was relieved.

He rarely let Dean out of his sight again, opting to bathe after dark, when he knew that Dean was forbidden from leaving the house. It never seemed to bother Dean, who rarely left Castiel's side anyway. For the longest time, everything was perfect, because Castiel was used to odd things happening to his emotions. Emotions were something he could handle.

But then, odd things started happening to Castiel's _body_.

He saw it on television between a married couple. The man and woman were in a bed together, and he laid atop her, pressed into her and put his tongue into her mouth. Castiel was fairly certain that this was the type of television he wasn't allowed to watch, but he was sick with a cold, and Mary had allowed him to sleep on the sofa as he stayed home from school. He'd just been flipping through channels when a flash of flesh made his finger pause on the rubber button.

He watched the man put his hand over her chest, and they made sounds, his hips pressing her into the bed as she began removing his shirt. Castiel was excited. He sat up and leaned closer to the television, snotty tissues being crushed in his fists as he gaped at the screen, wide-eyed. The man began thrusting and moving on top of her and... Castiel knew that he wanted to do _that_.

The sooner the better, in fact.

He felt so thrilled watching it. He wanted to turn off the television and go to his bed right then. But Castiel stopped at the top of the staircase. He contemplated it a little more, and he realized that he didn't share a bed with a woman.

He shared a bed with Dean.

Castiel wasn't able to think of anything since. The only thing more exciting than doing _that_ with a woman was doing _that_ with _Dean._

The thought also amused him that night as Dean jumped into his bed. The springs would make them bounce, Castiel was certain. He wanted so badly to do it with him. It looked like so much fun. But something on the surface stopped it from emerging in the form of brave and exciting displays. He was afraid of waking Dean's Mom and Dad with his dark little giggles and bouncing, bouncing, bouncing.

Shortly after that, Castiel began having curious _physical_ reactions to Dean's body, though he didn't completely understand them. He was forced to hide countless, perplexing stiffenings of his penis and the evidence of thrilling dreams against his soft, sticky belly come sunrise in their shared beds.

The first time it happened, he panicked, thinking he'd wet the bed and that—_surely_—he'd humiliated himself in front of the one and only person whose opinion had ever mattered to him. Frantic, he kicked a bewildered Dean out of bed and shoved his dirty underwear into the bottom of the bathroom waste can, praying that he wouldn't be caught and punished for doing something so unbelievably childlike.

Mary found them and promptly informed her husband. This spurred a rather uncomfortable and awkward conversation regarding words foreign to Castiel: masturbation, ejaculation, penetration. All of the "—ation's" confused Castiel as he sat in Dr. Cullen's office, red-faced and bewildered. Especially since John kept mentioning _girls_. Castiel had never liked _girls_. They were gross.

But Dean was _not_.

Castiel liked Dean. He found his face and symmetry to be intriguing, could stare at him for hours and never grew bored of it. When Dean would lay next to him, Castiel would like the warmth against his stomach and chest, would wish to be closer to him.

Castiel wasn't able to determine whether or not it was okay to feel that way toward Dean, so he felt it best to keep it secret until he discovered otherwise. He was too afraid to ask Dr. Cullen. He didn't want to risk his new home—his best friend. The thought alone terrified him. He was certain that he could not exist without Dean. He often hated his reactions toward Dean for this reason, though he couldn't understand why he should have to hide them.

It felt so natural.

Later, Castiel became consumed by curiosity over his body—enraptured by the sensations of touching his penis. He wondered about what Dean's might look like. He'd wrap his fingers around the stiff length and pretend it might be his. He desperately wanted to know what it might feel like to rub them together, though he feared that asking might be inappropriate.

He didn't masturbate like normal boys either—preferred laying atop a pillow rather than using his hand, as Johnhad once awkwardly explained to him. It was the only way he'd ever seen anyone have sex before. It was easier for him to imagine that Dean was beneath him, giggling and making sounds much like the people on television had.

Castiel's pants always grew tight when he got a new pillow.

"It's cold," Dean shivered as he sprang through the door to Castiel's room. Castiel had been waiting since his door had closed that evening. He was too old to fear ridiculous things like monsters _now_—a thirteen-year-old._A teenager._ This thought excited Castiel.

He couldn't wait for school to let out for the summer so that he and Dean could go to the beach. Castiel still couldn't swim, but that didn't matter. He liked seeing Dean in his swim trunks, had even encouraged him to buy the black ones.

He liked seeing Dean's body, so much more toned than his own. Castiel was usually described as "twiggy," with his skinny arms and legs and awkwardly frail frame. Castiel also had long, ragged scars across his back that he was too embarrassed to reveal. But Dean was so perfectly proportioned and symmetrical and... perfect. Castiel wished he looked like that.

Castiel chuckled and flung back the blankets just as Dean approached the bed, diving beneath with chattering teeth. The winter would be gone soon, but for now, Forks was wet and cold and the hardwood floors of their rooms did nothing to help matters. Castiel hissed as he felt one of Dean's cold toes touch his.

Then he said, "You're freezing! Get over here," and eagerly opened his arms to Dean, who did not hesitate to accept Castiel's offering. Their chests crushed together and residual shivers emanated through Dean's body as Castiel warmed his arms with his hands.

Castiel nuzzled his nose into Dean's hair—Dean's soapy-smelling hair—and sighed, happy that he was no longer alone. For even if Castiel was much too old to fear ridiculous things, he certainly could not deny that being alone in the dark unnerved him.

Crushed chest-to-chest under the quilts, Castiel could finally turn out his lamp and find peace. Castiel burrowed deeper into him, as he always did, and hooked one of his legs around Dean's. He wanted to keep him pinned to his side as his anxious eyes searched the darkness of his bedroom. Dean's sleepy breaths washed over his neck and eased Castiel.

It was then that Castiel's focus would shift from the darkness to the body against him. Castiel felt his chest rising and falling and pushing and pulling. He felt Dean's hand at his back, limp as he slipped into slumber. Castiel felt Dean hips against his and he had to move back—just a little.

Castiel's erection throbbed.

Secretly, he'd rub softly against Dean some nights when he was certain his slumber was deep enough. Just a brush against his thigh, light as a feather. It was enough to create lengthy dreams that were far more fulfilling. He'd feel his curves and snake his arms around his torso, squeeze him gingerly and but a gentle rock was enough to satisfy his need and make his imagination run wild.

As Dean now slept against him in the cold room, Castiel anticipated that moment. His penis was throbbing and ached to be pressed against something. _Anything_. Castiel remained still until he was absolutely certain he would not rouse Dean. Then, slowly, he brought his hips forward and his erect penis touched Dean's hip.

Castiel wanted to make sounds and rub against him further, though he knew he couldn't. He was frustrated. He chided himself for being careless and not masturbating as he often did before Dean would come to his room.

He'd seen other boys their age french kissing girls much like he'd seen on television that day.

But Castiel didn't want to french kiss girls. He sighed into Dean's hair and eventually closed his eyes, wondering if he'd ever be able to have those things with Dean. But for now, Castiel really didn't care. As much as he spent his time thinking about sex and kissing and rubbing his erection against the pillow that he wished was Dean, he was certain that—so long as he had _this_—he would be perfectly content for the rest of time.

Castiel hugged Dean tighter.

The first moment Castiel recognized a thin fracture between him and Dean existed was at the piano. It was a foreign, baffling thing, this crack that that could grow into a chasm at any moment. Try as he may have to ignore it, one Sunday morning proved it impossible.

"No. Your fingers aren't moving fast enough," Dean instructed through gnashed teeth, brows pulled together in annoyance. He had the most adorable scowl gracing his lips, hard, and yet soft.

Castiel replied, "What's wrong with going slow?" and tried the melody once more, so languorous that it was drawn into a series of sharp, ragged notes.

Dean cringed. "Because it's not a song if it takes a year to play," and then Dean shut the cover so hastily that it struck Castiel's wrist, and he snatched his hand back in surprise.

Staring at the bruising line, Castiel felt a pang in his chest where his happiness usually existed, nestled deep within Dean's soft caresses and gentle smiles. The slamming of his wrist put a dark, black mark upon Castiel's heart. He tried to shove it away, into the back of his soul where Dean's other indiscretions lay—a shove of his shoulder, an annoyed snapping-at, a tattle-telling to Mary—and yet Castiel couldn't simply disregard it.

They were becoming more and more frequent, he realized with sudden alarm.

He'd been trying to get Dean to teach him the piano. He knew so much about music and could play so beautifully. Castiel felt locked out of some obscure niche in Dean's life that he couldn't quite access.

But Castiel was horrible at playing piano and Dean was too impatient to teach him properly. It had taken him over a month to learn simple childhood lullabies, and his fingers were too short and awkward to move with the same speed and grace as Dean's.

Castiel rubbed his wrist, scowling at the piano cover. He didn't like piano anymore, couldn't grasp the complexity of playing the damn thing. It made him feel inferior to Dean, as if he were unable to keep up. He feared being left behind in his simple ways and lack of luster. Castiel didn't have any kind of special talents.

Dean's fingers came up to the bridge of his perfectly straight nose and he pinched it, squeezing his eyes closed. Castiel kept his gaze locked on his wrist and eventually felt Dean's hand on his own, prying it away from his spiteful grasp.

Dean smiled ruefully, but then he brought Castiel's wrist up to his lips—his perfectly pink lips—and kissed the reddened line, green eyes fixed to Castiel's, oh so contrite. "Sorry," he whispered when he gingerly released his hand, but Castiel was in a state of shock from the sensation that still tickled against his bruising flesh.

They talked and laughed, and Castiel was _impatient._ He wanted Dean to leave, so he asked him to go set up his new game system. When Dean was up the stairs, finally leaving Castiel alone, he brought his wrist to his own lips and copied Dean, stealing a phantom kiss that left him feeling exceptionally giddy.

He prayed that Dean might hurt him again—and _very_ soon.

All the boys sat huddled around the top bleacher, a couple of them shifting in a fashion quite familiar to Castiel. He shifted too, but not because of the pornographic magazine that sat between Dean and Sam.

Dean was _horny_, Castiel could tell.

His cheeks were flushed with the most beautiful rose-colored hue, frosting the tips of his ears in a fervent pink. Castiel mentally dubbed this shade of Dean, "Pretty Porno Pink," and he inwardly snickered. Dean's green eyes were gaping at the image of a woman—a leggy, large-breasted brunette woman—and his hand was hidden suspiciously deep in his cargo short pockets. Castiel couldn't shake the vision of Dean possibly touching himself, right in front of him.

"God, she's hot," Sam sighed, pursing his lips as his head dipped closer.

"Smokin'" some of the boys echoed, but Castiel didn't much care about_their_assessments.

His eyes were trained to Dean, hoping that he'd find the image as repulsive as he did.

Sadly, Dean was clearly excited, stuttering, "W-where did you get this?" There was brief, subtle movement under Dean's short fabric, and Castiel desperately needed to get home and loosen his own.

"My brother," Sam replied, tongue darting out to lick his lips. Even that small gesture, from someone like Sam, had Castiel's erection throbbing so badly that his hips bucked.

His mind was wildly creating fantasies with both Dean _and_ Sam now. Then again, Castiel was so frustrated that even the disgusting woman in the magazine could have gotten him off.

Dean shifted again. "Send him my thanks," he chuckled, low and husky and Castiel grew impossibly harder. He scooted a little closer to Dean, under the ruse of wanting a better angle in which to view the picture, and Dean, noticing, gave him the space necessary to nestle his body closely.

Dean always saved Castiel the seat closest to him.

His arms were warm, and the one nearest to Castiel still had its hand shoved deep into his pocket. Castiel imagined all these other boys leaving so that he could get closer and whisper in his ear, "I can help with that..."

He'd never felt so brazen and so unforgivably turned on, by just watching Dean's arousal nonetheless. He didn't know how much longer he could keep this secret from Dean. They spent so much time together, alone and intimate, and the opportunities they might have to explore were so incredibly appealing to Castiel.

But then Sam was watching Castiel with narrowed eyes, and Castiel realized that his own stare hadn't been on the magazine, but instead, on Dean's subtly shifting crotch.

Castiel gulped and quickly looked away, ignoring the accusation in his gaze.

"Hey, Castiel," Sam suddenly said, and all heads snapped to him, most of the faces flushed and blank. Sam smirked and wondered aloud, "I'm guessing this isn't your type of material." Then Sam pulled out a sports magazine, full of sweaty men and athletic advertisements, and slapped it down on the bleachers, in front of him.

The other boys were silent for only a moment before their eyes widened, and then they were laughing uproariously, Dean stock-still and staring at the sports magazine in bewilderment.

Castiel stood, indignant as he glowered at Sam's ridiculously greasy hair, and wished that he could pour bleach into his brain, just to dissolve the momentary fantasy he'd just had of him, sullying Dean's solitary perfection.

"Shut up," Dean eventually defended as Castiel stalked away to the restrooms, hoping they might go home soon.

Castiel couldn't wait to curl up to Dean and dream of that hand, lost in the depths of pocket fabric.

"What do you mean?" Castiel asked, leaning against his headboard with one knee tucked to his chest. The soft glow of his bedside lamp illuminated Dean's face from below as he stood, and it accentuated his eye sockets—made them look sunken. His lips looked bigger. The lines of his fifteen-year-old body were almost visible through his old, sheer t-shirt.

"This isn't a joke," Dean whispered, but Castiel wasn't laughing. In fact, Castiel was very close to weeping, but he wouldn't let Dean see that. He clenched his teeth and wound his finger tightly around a loose thread of his bed sheet. It cut off his circulation and turned his fingertip blue.

Castiel pulled harder.

"Come on," Castiel pleaded softly, one last time, nodding his head to the space at his side. He was doing his best to play it off, uncertain how transparent he was being.

Dean's eyes stared at the void, blankets all rumpled and shoved back for the promise of his warm body.

Castiel hadn't wanted to ask. They'd never needed to and this new necessity confused him. Their beds had been open to one another for six years.

Dean's eyes were lifeless now, his posture indifferent. He shifted his weight. "Never," was his quiet answer and he turned, stalking from the room with his head down.

When the door finally closed, Castiel let the cancer of his absence invade him. It was crimson and bare—like his bedroom at midnight. The red walls were covered with marker and sketches and doodles and poetry they'd once been capable of sharing. The lamp illuminated little and Castiel scowled at the scant scrawlings he could decipher.

His finger was now numbed.

He wondered why Dean was doing this—denying Castiel his comfort. But he already knew. He'd heard the whispers around the house that floated to his ears like an evil, hissed chanting.

"_Aren't they a little old to be sleeping with one another,John? Shouldn't you say something?_"

Castiel had ignored them and would wait for Dean to come. If ever he failed to, Castiel would go to him. That was how gravity worked. Even during evening dinners, they'd shift together, like a graceful dance. Dean had been so oblivious and uncaring for so long. It had been the sweetest little abomination—this secret longing Castiel had kept hidden.

Castiel was apt at hiding.

But Castiel also knew that Dean's Mom's and Dad's displeasure had nothing to do with this. Castiel knew that this was _his_ fault. He'd been careless and stupid—had allowed Dean to feel his morning erection and had reacted in an untoward way.

That had occurred earlier that morning and Castiel knew he had ruined it all with one, half conscious thrusting of his hips. Dean had opened his eyes and furrowed his brows, and when Castiel had realized what he'd done, he hadn't scrambled away. Instead, he'd held his hips there and had wanted to do it again. Their eyes were droopy from sleep, and Castiel's mouth felt fuzzy, but he'd been groggy and still enveloped by the euphoria of the dream he'd had about Dean.

Dean, who'd looked so confused and tired beside him.

Castiel had leaned his face closer to Dean, grinding his erection into his warm thigh.

Somewhere deep down, Castiel had convinced himself that Dean would feel the same things. He'd hoped that they could keep it secret and explore each other. But Castiel should have known better. Castiel often heard Dean doting over certain girls at school and knew he'd been attracted to _them_. Not Castiel. Dean liked their brown hair and petite frames, kept magazines hidden beneath his mattress with naked women in them. _These _were the things Dean dreamed about. Not Castiel. Never Castiel.

Dean had shoved him away with an aggressive haste.

Castiel wanted to plead with him as Dean flung himself out of the bed, aghast and horrified. He'd wanted to explain that he couldn't help it and that Dean had the softest, palest, most beautiful skin. He wanted Dean to know that he would gladly deny those reactions if he'd simply stay with him.

He wanted Dean to know that he meant so much more, that Castiel's curiosities and reactions were not the cause, but the effect of his connection to Dean.

Now, Castiel needed Dean at his side to make him feel safe and loved and valuable. To give him a place in the world. He craved the light buoyancy that often invaded his chest when Dean was near, touching him in little, affectionate gestures. He ached to place his head in Dean's lap, to feel his lithe fingers stroke his hair and stare into the green eyes that drove the darkness away.

He pulled the thread around his fingertip tighter, little tingles prickling the flesh. He was close to springing up and running to him. He wanted to catch Dean by the wrists and slam him against a wall in a violent, appalling way. He wanted to tell him that he couldn't survive without him—tell him to open his eyes and see how much they belonged together, _in that way_—tell him to open his mouth so he could finally taste the sweetness of his forbidden lips.

Castiel didn't sleep, and he never turned off the lamp.

Castiel eventually heard the terms that summer, in the locker rooms, on television, and coming from the dirty mouths of the neighborhood boys.

_Gay. Fairy. Faggot. Queer._

They spoke of boys, like Castiel, who were attracted to other boys—though the way in which they spoke of it was far more vulgar and demeaning. Castiel had never thought his attraction to another boy as wrong and found it difficult to comprehend why it necessitated its own term. He so badly wanted to ask someone to explain it to him, but found Dean to be evasive of his company.

With no school to occupy him, Castiel followed Dean around the house. He sank at his side on the plush, white sofa. He tried to watch their favorite shows with Dean, but they never talked. Castiel would then follow him outside, wordless and lost, as Dean sought the group of boys he'd come to call friends. Castiel was rarely referred to as a "_friend._"

He hated it when Dean called him his "_brother._"

It didn't take long for Dean to grow annoyed with Castiel's persistence. "Stop following me," he finally snapped one day. Castiel had been trailing behind him, counting their steps as they traveled the sidewalk. Dean's infuriated spin caught Castiel off guard.

He flinched.

Dean rolled his eyes, his hair shining in the sunlight with flecks of ruby red. A drop of sweat trailed from his ear and pooled into his collarbone. "Don't you want to make your _own_ friends?" he asked meaningfully, eyes alight with irritation, cheeks flushed with fury. His nostrils flared and Castiel had always thought Dean adorable when angry.

Of course, now, Dean was angry with _him_.

Castiel opened his mouth but couldn't speak. He didn't understand having anything of his _own_. Castiel shared with Dean and Dean shared with Castiel. There was no one thing owned solely by the other. They'd shared clothes and shampoo and candy bars and ice cream and soda pop and toys and... _everything_. He couldn't fathom the line required to sever that concept.

What was the point in having anything if he couldn't share it with Dean?

They could hear the voices of the other guys around the corner, and Dean shifted impatiently. Without waiting for an answer, he spun on his heel and loped toward them, so graceful as his muscular body moved. Castiel was still stuck in his awkwardly skinny body, all twiggy limbs and too tall to know what to do with them. Dean's hair stuck to his sweaty neck and Castiel memorized their curly Q's and matted O's.

And then, because he simply didn't know what else to do, Castiel followed.

Dean stepped right. Castiel stepped right. Dean stepped left, Castiel stepped left. Dean curved his path, Castiel curved his path. It was customary by this point. They even walked the same now. Talked the same. Used the same taboo language in private and liked the same junk food. Dean had adopted a fraction of Castiel's odd, southern accent, and in return, Castiel had adopted Dean's sharp annunciations, their speech becoming one, fused drawl unique only to them. Dean was an extension of him—a dual part of Castiel's body that he had no choice other than to accommodate.

But then the guys' voices got closer and Dean's fists curled at his side. Castiel furrowed his brow at them, tilted his head and pondered their meaning.

And then Dean spun.

Castiel flinched.

Dean put his palms to Castiel's shoulders and shoved him with an angry growl. Castiel watched his face as if in slow motion—the furling of his pink lips, the forward sway of his messy hair, the darkness of his eyes, and the creasing of his pale forehead.

Castiel—shocked and puzzled—tumbled to the ground and landed on his bare elbows with a blinding "crack."

He cried out in pain, could feel the course pavement below him scrape his skin away from bone and burn. It reminded Castiel of that excruciating moment when leather had met his flesh as a child. It wasn't the pain that hurt. Castiel found the pain to be oddly stimulating and, though the sensations burned, the throbbing made him acutely aware of his every nerve ending.

Castiel liked that.

No. The pain did not hurt Castiel.

Castiel was hurt by the persons who intentionally inflicted it.

His watery gaze was trained on the figure above him, and Castiel whimpered. Even though his elbows bled, it was his chest that ached. Castiel found it difficult breath. Dean's face was pale now, not flushed. His green-apple eyes were wide and aghast, and he staggered back, mutely shaking his head from side to side.

Castiel felt a tickle of pleasure from the remorse and horror that covered Dean's face like a tragic mask. Castiel was so weak physically, so vulnerable, and he hated feeling that way. This guilt was his only power over Dean. His perfect lips parted, and he _did_ apologize, but when the guys grew nearer, Dean _did not_ offer Castiel his hand. He hung his head and his remorse transformed to pity. Then Dean's face was blank, and he was turning to the others with a small, guilty shrug.

Blood trailed down Castiel's arms as he stood; using his blonde hair to veil his humiliating tears. He dusted the dirt off his back and when he extended his arms, a smatter of pain speckled his sensitive and raw skin. The guys all shot him odd looks and continued their laughter and walking.

Dean followed them, but Castiel followed nothing.

* * *

**TO BE CONTINUED...**

**Please read and review**


	2. Chapter 2

I dont own Supernatural.

* * *

Mary and John were beginning to worry about Castiel, and he knew it. He hid away in his room for the remainder of the summer and spent his time dreaming and sulking. He only came out for dinner, never capable of containing his bitter tears when Dean would return home at twilight, flushed and sweating and exhausted from a long day of playing baseball with the other guys.

Castiel hated baseball—not that he was ever invited to play, of course.

One evening while the two were washing dishes, Castiel heard Mary asking Dean why he was never invited. "It's just a little odd that you were so attached at the hip, and now you won't even take him out to play with you," she wondered aloud.

Dean lied quite easily, "I asked him to come and he said 'no.'"

This produced a term from John when Mary went to him, concerned: "Social dysfunction."

Castiel balked at these words, infuriated at Dean. He wasn't certain how, but he made a plan to get back at him—to make Dean feel as excluded as he did. He began listening to music that he knew Dean would loathe. He chose the loudest, heaviest, most obscene and frowned upon songs and played them whenever he was certain Dean would be home. He was always quite pleased whenever he'd catch a glimpse of Dean's face, wrinkled in distaste.

But Castiel actually found himself relating to the words of the songs—angry and withdrawn.

Before school began again, Mary took Castiel out to buy his own clothes, since Dean's bedroom—and consequently, his closet—were now off-limits to Castiel. He chose clothes that were the farthest from what Dean wore.

Dean liked black, grey and brown and so Castiel chose white, black and blue.

When school started again, Castiel found it difficult to watch Dean with the other boys. He had to sit at his own table Sophomore year, exiled from his usual spot at Dean's side. Outwardly, Castiel remained emotionless and numb, but inwardly, Castiel was anguished with every moment that he had to watch Dean's smile from across the room.

Castiel stopped caring about his grades, found it difficult to remain focused on the boring material. He'd spend his afternoons gazing out windows and concocting fantasies of Dean's ultimate absolution. In his daydreams, Dean would come to him, remorseful and pleading, and Castiel—never capable of saying no to him—would accept him with wide, open arms and a joyous grin.

They'd kiss in Castiel's fantasies.

It wasn't always on the mouth.

On Halloween that year, Dean took Jo Harvel out on a date, to a costume party that Castiel hadn't been invited to. Jo went as Marilyn Monroe. Dean went as John F. Kennedy. Castiel went to the Winchester' liquor cabinet when they fell asleep and got drunk for the very first time.

He vomited in his closet.

When his "parents" had found their liquor missing that Thanksgiving, they'd punished Castiel—a first. He was prepared for a myriad of methods used to accomplish this. Castiel knew by then that John would never strike him. Instead, they grounded Castiel to his room, where he had round-the-clock access to a brand new computer, high speed internet, and websites where he could watch men do what he always wished Dean might.

As if he went anywhere else.

The numbness never came. Castiel always read and heard about people becoming numb to this kind of pain, but he wasn't so lucky. Rage filled Castiel like a violent waterfall, brimming over the edges and threatening to spill over at any given second. Whenever it did, he'd be forced to lock himself away like a volatile prisoner, too afraid of his flagrant transparency to simply... snap.

God, how he wanted to snap.

Now, Castiel was watching by the ledge, his ribbons of smoke twirling like a zephyr toward the night sky as it twinkled. He tucked himself away in a dark corner of the balcony and watched. He was always watching. Two glowing eyes in the darkness of the forest. Something's off, but you don't know what.

He flicked his cigarette and narrowed his eyes—his sapphire-colored eyes.

He hated that fucking gemstone. He hated the humid breeze, caressing his flesh with nothing but chill. He hated the sounds coming from below him and the rattling of the windows like monkeys in cages. He hated so much these days.

He hated himself. He hated his scars. He hated his black hair and it's course curling. He hated being sober, and he hated lying to his "parents." He hated _them_. He hated his red bedroom and the cold floors. He hated the memories—and—he—fucking—_loathed—Lisa-Braeden_

Dean looked so strange now, sitting on the hood of his new car and laughing. He threw his head back, and his abdomen tightened with the chortles. Castiel could sense its dishonesty in the oddest way. He wanted to be there to look a little closer. He wanted to set his jaw and narrow his eyes and peer into that bizarre sound. He dissected it with careful incisions. High. Low. Deep. Repeat. Bounce of the diaphragm. Tosses of bronze.

So few could see his strangeness, really comprehend or grasp its existence.

To Castiel it was a flashing billboard on a crowded interstate. It reminded him of little bugs, teeming beneath tree bark and gnawing until nothing was left but a hollow stump. Slender fingers. Animated as they waved. Words spoken, vibrations of sound that twisted and distorted through a crooked smile. Dean brushed her hair back from her neck. Fingertips grazed her skin, and she smiled, smiled, smiled.

He blew his smoke into the air slowly, allowing the noxious cloud to obstruct the view of lips touching. Hands on backs. Whispers in ears. More laughter, stretching wide around the space and calling, "Look at me! Look at me! Aren't I so motherfucking divine?"

Tiny, tiny hands, grasping and clutching as their lips glistened under the pale moonlight. Her fingers trailed his shoulders and sank into the blue fabric of his shirt. She hooked her knee around his hip and moaned against him. She reached down and cupped his groin, and he shoved his fingers into her hair with a fevered grunt.

Castiel—drunk and dizzy—vomited over the railing.

"Where did you go?" Dean asked as she took her seat. His hair hung in his eyes. Flopping down. Wide eyes. He picked at his chicken and avoided anything outside his bubble of perfection. He wasn't oblivious to Castiel's cutting stare. He was just ignoring him. Castiel wished he could ignore Dean, too.

She grinned. "To the lady's room, of course." Her hand sought his, wrapped it up tight, held it down and locked it away. Their fingernails were bright and entwined and laying atop the Winchester family dinner table like the prettiest picture. Everyone was smiling. Castiel inspected her fingers and, against his will, envisioned them wrapped around Dean's rigid cock.

Castiel ground his teeth and tapped his boot, shoved the food into his mouth.

"Your home is so lovely, Mrs. Winchester!" Lisa exclaimed like screeching chimes that made Castiel cringe. Eyes bright like headlights scanned the walls, and she gushed, gushed, gushed. Castiel felt sick again. The pleasantries swelled around him. "_Everything tastes delicious! I love that painting! Your pearls are gorgeous!_"

And this was the most horrific thing about this Lisa fucking Braeden. She hadn't an ounce of malice in her. She was polite and kind, attractive and sensual, sweet and sugary, intelligent and strong-willed. And she was genuine in her care for Dean. When all pretenses were stripped away, Castiel could only come to one conclusion.

Castiel hated Lisa most because he had no logical reason to.

Mary beamed with pride and joy. John was engrossed in a newspaper. Dean was nodding along and eating small, menial bites. Shoving them down the hole. Holding her hand. Grazing her shoulder. Smiles so crooked and bizarre were flashed and disarmed her anxiety.

Castiel fucking hated that smarmy, crooked smile of his. He shouldn't be smiling like that—teeth and pink and bright green eyes, seeking brown. Every time he saw the smile—the one meant for Castiel—he wanted to stand and scream and toss his chair about like a petulant child. Didn't they understand anything?

Dean was _his_.

Dean kissed Lisa goodnight in the foyer as Castiel passed to climb the stairs. Hands on hips, thumbs on cheeks, and tender whispers. Dean stared after her form with sparkling eyes and a thrilled stare. He probably liked watching her ass sway, Castiel seethed. Then the door was closed, and Dean was trodding away. Bounce in his step.

He never looked at Castiel anymore. It felt as though Forks was a chasm below him and he was falling. He was a weightless, yet somehow swollen mass that kept dropping. He waited to hear the final "_crack_" of his landing. Waited to feel the pain of his ending. Waited for the ground to finally give way to nothing.

He _had_nothing.

Castiel's fingernails penetrated the flesh of his palm, and when he finally,_finally_ bled, his lips twitched like a dying body.

The stale linger of its taste in his mouth was the worst.

It was bitter, with an edge of saccharine, like blood and candy. He could feel it's violent dance on the tip of his tongue with every passing day. It never waned. Like a ghost, it haunted his empty halls, floating through the vacant rooms and searching for tattered toys and discarded, broken soldiers. How he wished he could give it back, shove it into his arms and laugh, laugh, laugh.

He could taste it the strongest at midnight. Could smell soapy hair and feel damp breaths against his neck. He could hear soft breathing, see twitching-dream fingers. Could feel hot, tender flesh beneath his eager fingertips.

Castiel had always been such a weird, dark little shit.

Castiel still found himself waking at the twelve chimes of the hallway grandfather clock. He'd forget the betrayal, and his feet would take him through the house, up the stairs, and to the door he was once welcome to enter. It wasn't until his hand wrapped around the brass knob that he'd remember.

It would wrap its bony fingers around his throat and squeeze until he'd gasp in the darkness. He'd stagger back and let the handle go without really meaning to. He'd feel Dean's words every night, thick like cold venom coating a candied shell.

_"I don't sleep with fags."_

And there—in front of the entrance which was once a soothing balm to his wounds—Castiel would cry.

He wouldn't sob. Castiel wasn't a sobber—he refused. But the tears would trail down his cheeks like searing tracers, regardless of his efforts to disallow them. He was always so weak like this—tired and scared and utterly fucking alone. Where was their compassionate fucking boy now?

And then Castiel would go back to bed. He would remove his boxers and lay naked beneath the covers. He would grab a white down pillow and shove it between the sheets, turn on his side and grip it between his thighs. He would move his hips against the smooth coldness, releasing a sigh. He would smash it against his throbbing erection.

His hand had always been lacking, so cold. Had felt so clinical and to-the-point. He'd wanted to imagine a pale, lanky body beneath him as he came. He wanted to feel above it, in control of it. He wanted to dominate it. This is the method he still preferred. Castiel couldn't even jack-off like a normal boy. But though that sickened him, made him feel shame, he continued.

He'd eventually turn to lay on top of it.

He would prop himself on his elbows and tuck his chin to his chest so he could watch himself fucking it. The tip of his cock would slide against white, peeking out from between his stomach and cotton. He'd imagine a little tuft of coppery hair, a trail from a belly button, hot breath on his face.

He would thrust urgently against it, the blankets on his back rising and falling with quick, sharp bounces and falling off his bare shoulders. His mattress would squeak, just like he always knew it would. He'd stare at himself moving against it and talk as if Dean were there, beneath him, writhing. Castiel had a vivid imagination and he'd say the most disgusting things to Dean's effigy.

The most disgusting, horrible, honest and arousing things.

At first he'd whisper sweetly, softly, tenderly to his absent lover, secret and gentle as he bucked into the pillow. He would shift his knees and he would push harder, offering husky praise to vacant space as he lifted his stomach for a better view.

He imagined Dean being so tight...

And then he would fall and writhe and rock into the bed with a pleading, begging groan as he came. Shuddering, he'd call his name as if Dean might hear him from across the house. He wanted him to rush through his door and swear that he'd never leave him again. He wanted to feel his sinewy arms encasing him yet again, holding Castiel's sweaty head to his chest.

Instead, Castiel would lay his cheek down, staring at the door and panting as he pressed his dick into the soiled pillow, just a few more times. It was so much easier this way. He'd forget the pain of standing before Dean's door—too exhausted and breathless to think. And then he'd fall asleep, sticky and empty.

Castiel did his own laundry now.

He'd waited for this moment since Junior year. It was the best fucking day he could remember having since Dean had kissed his wrist. Castiel walked on air through the halls of his high school, a secret grin on his face as he drifted from class to class, sticking to the shadows and the crevices of classrooms.

The girls were more chatty than usual and this... this pleased Castiel. The guys weren't much better, their whispers only minimally softer but ultimately decipherable. He'd lean in over his desk to catch their phantom and intangible murmurings, wanted to pluck them out of the air and shove them in his pocket for safekeeping. His hidden smile grew wider with every second.

Dean had stayed home today, as had Lisa

If it weren't for the school gossip, Castiel would have never recognized his fortune. For in the hallways and the stolen seconds before and after classes, the student body was abuzz with particularly satisfying information.

Lisa Braeden kissed one of the Biker boys. Dean found out.

They were no longer together.

Nothing could dampen Castiel's high spirits. Not even when the assistant principal cited him for dress code violation because his pants had fallen too low on his hips. Not even when Ms. Ann informed Castiel of the possibility he might not graduate, due to his laughable GPA. Not even when he missed the bus and had to walk home, the rain already beginning to fall.

Castiel was positively soaked to the bone by the time he reached the large white mansion in the forest. Mary and John's cars were both absent from the garage. He checked. The house was an eerie kind of silent, as if maybe a calm after the storm.

Castiel went straight up the flight of stairs and passed his own room. Dean's door was closed, as he'd expected it to be. Internally, his heart was fluttering wildly in anticipation, all abuzz like the campus had been. He didn't even bother knocking.

But he wasn't prepared for what he saw: Dean curled up on the bed beneath his sheets, staring at the far wall with vacant, bloodshot eyes.

Castiel inspected him with much misery, the buzz in his chest subsiding to a deep aching that he never wanted to experience. Dean's pain was Castiel's pain.

In that moment, Castiel realized that he'd been so very wrong about Lisa Braeden. He had ample reason to hate her, every fiber of her being. She possessed Dean's heart, his perfect, flawless, fragile, delicate heart. Castiel had never entirely realized the depths of Dean's feelings for the girl, but there was no denying them now. She'd had his heart, and Castiel knew this with certainty, because clearly, she had crushed it.

Castiel knew how that felt, could see the symptoms and signs miles away. If ever he were doubtful of this fact, all he had to do was look in the mirror.

He felt no sense of vindication. There was no glory for Castiel in seeing Dean like this: crumpled and discarded and empty. There was only a deep sense of empathy, an impossible longing to comfort and soothe, a craving to absorb as much of that ache as he possibly could.

So Castiel removed his wet jacket and moved closer to Dean's bed, growing more and more miserable with every second that Dean completely disregarded his presence. Castiel pulled back the blankets and slid underneath, dampening the sheets with his soaked denim and dripping hair.

Dean was so motionless that Castiel thought him much like a statue. Except that he wasn't. Statues stood tall, they didn't lay curled around white bedsheets, despondent and limp. When Castiel was close enough, he lay his head upon the pillow, placing his eyes directly in Dean's line of vacant vision. There was only a slight spark of recognition in Dean's green eyes, but it was enough for Castiel to feel relief.

But then Dean whimpered.

It was a soft, anguished sound that pierced the depths of Castiel's soul. And he couldn't restrain his arms from seeking Dean's body and encasing them in what little comfort Castiel had left to give. Dean did not return the embrace at first, but Castiel smelled his hair and smoothed it back, hooked his wet leg around Dean's calf, the way he always had.

Castiel had never been the strong one. All he could do was hold Dean's prostrate body until he felt his arms respond, one draping itself weakly over Castiel's side. It was only an echo of what he knew they once shared. It was dark and miserable and painful in ways that Castiel couldn't possibly enjoy. Even though he finally held Dean in his arms, it was, in many ways, tainted with despair.

As was their sleep.

They must have slept for hours upon hours, if not days. Castiel could sense Dean in the depths of his seemingly never ending slumber, could reach him and touch him and cradle his head in his hands. He could also, almost instinctively, feel the sun's set and rise as he dozed contentedly.

Castiel seemed to awake to a weight in his chest that puzzled him. He squinted his eyes and wondered what the hell was fucking with his hair, something seeming to flutter through his tresses in a darkly, achingly familiar way. Castiel hadn't had anyone touch his hair since...

He opened his eyes to bare skin and a waistband, a little trail of coppery hair disappearing beneath it. Castiel's head rose and fell with Dean's breaths, his skin exploding into a current of electric gooseflesh with every pass that was made against his scalp. Dean's fingers. Castiel knew they were Dean's fingers. He must have, even in his dreams, because the weight that filled his chest was something that Castiel hadn't felt in so long.

Castiel sighed, his arm wedged uncomfortably against Dean's side. He was afraid to speak, terrified to spook the moment and watch it flutter away and dissipate into nothingness.

Dean's voice was gravelly and weak. "I guess everyone knows." His fingers, his smooth, long, gentle fingers, never ceased in their tender caresses.

Castiel suppressed a shiver. "I'm sorry," he whispered and was surprised to hear the utter sincerity of his voice.

Somewhere behind Castiel's head, Dean shrugged. "So am I."

When the deep chasm of silence fell upon them, neither abandoned their position. Castiel's eyes remained saucer-wide and stared fixedly at the patch of hair before him. He'd always imagined it, had seen the beginnings of its growth, but had never had the opportunity to view it matured. He memorized the way each hair curled against Dean's belly, scattering outward into nothing but pale flesh.

"Castiel," Dean eventually called, his fingers faltering. "Can I ask you a question?"

Castiel was unnerved by the slowing of Dean's caresses and the frailty of his voice. "Okay," he resigned with more than a little wariness. He was incapable of denying him.

Dean's voice was dreadfully knowing as he asked, "Why did you change your hair?" And then, as if to punctuate his own suspicions, Dean grasped at a thick lock and twirled it around his forefinger.

Castiel wasn't sure what to say or how to answer him. He'd changed his hair months prior, had seen no visible evidence that Dean had even noticed. Swallowing nervously, Castiel coldly declared, "You really don't want to know," and prepared himself for Dean's ultimate rejection and callousness.

"I do," Dean insisted.

Castiel released a long sigh and began to turn his head. He realized that this was likely the last moment he and Dean would share with such scarce proximity. The pit of his stomach hardened and tensed in preparation.

Castiel looked Dean in his bloodshot eyes, propped on his elbows and stoic. He wasn't ready before, but this time... Castiel knew exactly what to expect.

"You prefer brunettes."

Castiel was back in his bedroom. He and Dean had slept for so long that he was no longer tired. He'd left Dean's bedroom that morning confused, hopeful, pissed off, and some how more confused.

Upon Castiel's confession, Dean hadn't kicked him out. Then again, he hadn't stayed in bed, either. Looking rather awkward and still just as empty as he had the previous day, Dean had excused himself, citing that he'd desperately needed a shower.

Castiel was uncertain what to make of his lack of reaction. He worried that maybe he'd been more transparent all this time than he'd known. Then again, Castiel had never been able to hide from Dean. He wasn't surprised that Dean had likely known the truth all along.

Which was why Castiel now lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling and fantasizing, hoping. This was what pissed him off. Castiel didn't want to get his hopes up just to watch them crash and burn. But try as he might, he couldn't stop himself from envisioning that trail of hair or Dean's green eyes. He couldn't stop himself from recalling the way Dean's bed had smelled—more like man than boy.

Castiel's mind kept stampeding between thoughts, first tender, and then violent, lascivious, longing, giddy, despondent, before finally continuing the circuit with no resolution. That was, until he heard a slight rapping on his bedroom door.

Castiel's eyes snapped to the source of the sound just as Dean's head peeked through, hand grasping the knob. Dean appeared rather uncertain as he stepped into the room, explaining, "Can't sleep."

Castiel swiftly sat up, scooting his back flush to his headboard and quickly running his fingers through his dark hair. He was caught off guard and knew that he must have looked like shit. "Me either," Castiel hurriedly agreed, eyes darting to the space at his side.

Without the necessity of Castiel's gawky request, Dean gracefully traveled to the bed, the mattress shifting once his weight was settled.

Dean's lips were set into a hard scowl. "I fucking hate him," he declared, eyes crinkling around the edges. Castiel didn't need to ask him to elaborate. Dean ranted, "Matt Donovin". He's a complete moron. Has no tact, whatsoever. He's rude and smells like a dog."

At this, Castiel's lips pulled up into a bitter smile. For all the hilarity of Dean's slight, Castiel knew what fueled it. "I think Lisa's the moron," he corrected, a little more harshly than intended.

Dean winced minutely at the mention of her name, shoulders folding inward protectively. "I can't hate Lisa," he admitted, suddenly weary as his chin dropped.

Castiel resented his voice for consoling, "It probably didn't mean anything." He instantly wondered why he was defending Lisa of all people. He should have been playing on Dean's vulnerability and demonizing her further, but he simply couldn't stand to see Dean so broken.

Dean snorted, nose wrinkling weakly. "But... don't kisses always mean something? They're so... intimate." He looked to Castiel, a plea in his stare that Castiel couldn't possibly fulfill.

"I wouldn't know," Castiel replied, a little embarrassed at his inexperience. He couldn't have eased Dean's mind even if he had known, incapable of judging the relationship between Lisa and this . Matt Donovin

Dean, suddenly curious, quirked an eyebrow and doubtfully hedged, "You've never kissed anyone?" But then his eyebrow fell and he turned his face away. "Because you don't like girls."

And there it was, so certain and defined.

Castiel had never said as much aloud. The evidence was contained to his midnight whispers, his indifferent attitude, his well worn computer, and his classroom fantasies. There was some satisfaction in his own nervously spoken, "Right," that he hadn't quite expected.

Nodding, Dean lifted a hand to wrap around his neck, rubbing awkwardly. "That must really suck," he offered, but then turned an immediate and delicious shade of scarlet.

Castiel realized the hidden context of Dean's words and found his own face flushing. Ignoring the uncomfortable atmosphere that had settled between them, Castiel shrugged. "Eh, who really wants some asshole slobbering in their mouth, anyway?"

Dean finally met his gaze, rolling his still-puffy eyes. "There's more to it than just slobbering in someone's mouth, Castiel." Then Dean's eyes seem to grow brighter as he explained with an enthusiasm that made Castiel uncomfortable, "There's something about having someone open themselves up to you, let you get close enough to kiss them, that's... special and meaningful. It's a language all its own, a way to tell someone what they mean to you and how much you want them without using words." When Dean finished, he was impossibly more red, the tips of his ears a startling magenta.

Castiel realized then that Dean was one of those laughable romantics and felt a fleeting swelling of what might have been a mocking chuckle. Had Castiel not felt overwhelmingly unfortunate to have never experienced what Dean described, he would have.

But he was filled, brimming, with a profound sadness that must have shown in his expression, for Dean's wistful smile quickly faded. Castiel lacked the grace and nobility necessary to suppress his whispered plea.

"Show me," Castiel implored, though he knew that doing so would be risking whatever scant closeness he'd only just regained.

Dean's hand was once again around his neck, anxious as he scratched and avoided Castiel's stare. "I don't know..." he trailed off, uncertain but—to Castiel's exultation—not entirely repulsed.

Castiel licked his lips and excitedly promised, "I'll never tell anyone, Dean, I swear to fucking God. Please," he begged, body already poised in anticipation of Dean's resignation.

"Lisa..." Dean worried, brows pinched tightly in concern.

Castiel couldn't contain his anger as he snapped, "So, what? It's okay for her to go around kissing motherfuckers while you're together, but you have to sit and pine away for her once you're apart? What kind of fucked up double standard is that?" Castiel quickly caught himself at the sight of Dean's tormented expression, softly adding, "She'll never even know."

So expectant was Castiel becoming of Dean's rejection—_he'd really ruined his chances with his quick temper_—that Dean's quiet, "You promise not to tell?" completely took him off guard.

Vehemently, Castiel nodded, so much so that his faux-brown hair flopped and swayed, and when Dean finally raised his eyes to his, Castiel thought he might just fucking explode right then. He'd never had reason to imagine his fantasies might come to fruition. Every one of them began with Castiel kissing Dean.

The air seemed to buzz as Dean took a deep breath, turning his body to Castiel's and noting bluntly, "This is kind of weird." But Castiel didn't think it was weird at all. Castiel thought it was right and perfect and meant to be.

Then Castiel wondered if Dean's hopeless romanticism wasn't rubbing off on him.

Castiel wanted other things of Dean's to rub off on him.

Trying desperately to shake himself, Castiel lied, "It's not a big deal," and pivoted toward Dean, his every cell electrified in wait.

Dean didn't use his hands or touch Castiel in any intimate fashion. Instead, without any preamble, he leaned into him and placed his lips over Castiel's. Castiel was thrumming with excitement as his breaths grew sharper, nervous as his hands raised to touch Dean's face, apprehensive as he attempted to cavalierly mimic what he'd seen so many others do.

Dean's lips felt tight in the infancy of the kiss and Castiel wondered if it was normal. Then as Castiel's hand met Dean's hair and the hot skin of his jaw, they began to slacken, the kiss growing loose and languid, slow and sensual.

Below the soft wool of his pants, Castiel throbbed and twitched.

Tongue. Castiel wanted tongue. He was rushed and greedy in his impatience, prodding the crease of Dean's lips with the pointed tip of his tongue. Dean's lips tightened once more, but were ultimately parted in Castiel's wild persistence.

Castiel was zealous and hungry and lightheaded as he clutched Dean's face to his and moved his tongue throughout the cavern of Dean's warm mouth. Castiel's breaths were gritty and abrasive, his head tilting to accommodate his near-maniac enthusiasm to explore.

Dean suddenly yanked himself away, eyes wide as Castiel's tongue guiltily sought his own wet lips. Castiel worried and inwardly scolded himself for being so aggressive in his haste to absorb the perfection of the moment.

Dean brought the back of his hand to his mouth, wiping away the gloss of Castiel's kiss. "A little... sloppy," Dean murmured. He made a poor attempt at hiding his grimace.

Castiel's heart plummeted to his stomach. He'd been a shitty kisser, and now, that was the only intimate impression Dean had of him. Dean had said himself, kisses were important. Castiel was horrified at his poor technique. "Let me try again," Castiel begged, moving closer to Dean's body.

Before Dean could answer—his nose still a little wrinkled—Castiel swiftly captured his lips with his own, and though Castiel held Dean in what could have been interpreted as an aggressive manner, his lips were the antithesis of his grasp in Dean's hair. Castiel offered soft pecks that he figured weren't slobbery at all. Dean—stiff and reluctant—sighed against him, an exasperated sound that Castiel used as an advantage to force his tongue inside.

Castiel was much slower this time. He even drew his tongue back with each prod, Dean eventually acclimating to his wet rhythm of dive and retreat, dive and retreat, dive and retreat. He swallowed each time his lips closed, hoping that he wasn't being 'sloppy' anymore.

Dean didn't yank himself away this time, instead indulging Castiel in what felt like an hour long make out session, but was probably more like a two minute kiss.

"Better." Dean offered a small smile when he pulled away, his lips a satisfying, shiny pink as a result of Castiel's soft suction.

Castiel was engulfed in a sense of ecstasy at Dean's praise, proud and particularly blissful. "Practice makes perfect," he pondered, a serious jest that he accentuated with an excited smile.

Dean emitted two dry chuckles, his eyes still echoing of a distinct void. "I think you're good," he said before lying down and closing his eyes.

"Third time's a charm?" Castiel nervously dared, a little disappointed at Dean's answering yawn.

"Mind if I crash here?" Dean asked, though he was already burrowing his feet and legs beneath the blankets.

Castiel answered by turning off his lamp and nestling himself into Dean's side. He was momentarily afraid that the kisses might make Dean resistant to his affection, but Dean was compliant in his exhaustion.

"I don't know about you, but I'm exhausted." Castiel accentuated this with a rather dramatic yawn, stretching his arms high into the air for effect.

John and Mary both nodded, but Castiel's gaze was fixed to their motionless son, lounging on the sofa and watching the television with disinterested eyes.

"Yeah. Okay," Dean replied in a monotone voice and rose, following Castiel up the stairs.

They went to bed together now.

Castiel ignored Mary's prying eyes as they followed the boys up the staircase, down the hall, and disappeared behind Castiel's bedroom door.

Once inside, Castiel could no longer contain his ardor. He turned to Dean, grasped the back of his head and crushed their faces together. Castiel's lips moved over Dean's in a militant fashion—invading and assailing. Castiel sucked and pulled in his frenzy, gasps hissing from his nose in broken octaves and caustic whirrs.

Dean's hands hung limply at his sides, his head and face and lips accommodating as they shifted to adapt to Castiel's nearly violent kisses. Castiel's hands weaved through hair as he ducked and straightened in a series of indecisive poses. He settled with running his palms down Dean's sides and grasping his narrow hips.

Castiel's tongue protruded and coerced Dean's lips into an obedient separation, as it always did. Castiel loved the taste of Dean, would have smiled had he not been so occupied with his rampant lips.

He tugged Dean closer to his bed, careful not to break their sacred chain of dive and retreat, dive and retreat, dive and retreat. Castiel was getting closer, his hands roaming Dean's hips with the thrilling promise of fleshy palmfulls of Dean's tight ass.

With an inhale through his nose, he quickly descended until his hands were there, splaying across the swells beneath the denim and burning with the need for less clothing. But that was the next step, Castiel reminded himself. He had been so patient, had spent an entire month just badgering Dean for kisses alone.

With time, Castiel had been able to escalate their nightly meetings, from innocent kisses meant to provide Castiel with experience, to fevered, pious displays that Dean rarely objected to. In fact, Dean never said a word.

Castiel was becoming quite frustrated.

Dean never touched Castiel. He never made the sounds Castiel emitted. He never initiated or begged Castiel for more. He never closed his eyes. He never tensed or strained under the struggle of his arousal.

Dean was passive, at best.

Castiel's kisses grew more aggressive and frenetic, as they always did. Dean's complete indifference was maddening to him, made his lips furl and flame in persistence and censure. His tongue prodded and shoved—a hopeful poke to an inanimate body.

But Castiel had much to be thankful for. He had Dean's tongue in his waiting mouth, his lips on his own, his ass beneath his eager palms, his groin only inches from Castiel's aching erection. And Castiel had gained even more than that. Dean spent more time with Castiel, even ate lunch at his table during school. He'd always talk softly with Dean while the brunette Braeden girl sat across the room, silent and visibly morose.

Castiel enjoyed seeing her red eyes, her pallid skin, and her obvious remorse. She'd cast Dean the most desirous of glances from across the room while he sat before Castiel with his back to the girl. Castiel basked in her dejection, would chat happily with Dean about menial things as the hour passed. He'd long to hold his hand beneath the cover of the table, and had only recently worked up the nerve necessary to do so.

Dean hadn't even spared him a puzzled glance. He'd merely accepted Castiel's grasp, staring into his plate of food with a blank expression. Castiel had soared as his thumb had rubbed and caressed, his voice never pausing. He'd felt as if he were the luckiest fucker in the entire lunchroom. Castiel didn't even care that no one could see.

Castiel had decided to be patient with Dean, as his gratitude for these small developments was simply unquantifiable. At nights, Castiel would kiss Dean and display his unbridled hunger for his tongue and lips and hair and skin and it was the best portion of his day, most of which was spent at Dean's side anyway. It was so much like how it had been, and Castiel was wholly euphoric to be back in Dean's good graces and then some.

But Castiel's patience was wearing thin. He needed Dean to touch him. He was growing fretful with Dean's lethargy and grabbed his warm hand while his face smashed itself closer, always greedy. Dean didn't protest as Castiel brought it between them, crushed it to his throbbing dick, and groaned into his wet mouth.

Castiel used his hand to guide Dean's, sliding it up and down his erection as he plunged and withdrew, plunged and withdrew, plunged and withdrew. Castiel was aching now, his belly tight and burdened, coiled cord around a tender bale. He whimpered and growled, forcing Dean's pliant hand faster and faster and faster. He recalled how he'd often fantasized about this, Dean's hand finally, finally, touching Castiel's cock. It was just as he'd imagined it, except—

Castiel ceased, pulling away and panting as Dean simply stared at the wall behind him. Dean's hand fell away from Castiel's bulging crotch with a listless sway. Whereas Castiel's chest rose and fell with labored and excited breaths, Dean's remained calm and shallow.

"You should really think about painting," Dean droned, flopping onto the bed with those eerily cadaverous eyes. He murmured, "It seems so dark in here."

Instead of answering, Castiel's face contorted into a raged grimace. He approached Dean at the edge of his mattress, reached down, and grasped his denim covered crotch. Castiel had fantasized about this too, but it wasn't quite the same either.

Because he was only _partially_ aroused.

Dean's erection was fragmentary._Incomplete_. Castiel searched Dean's eyes, finding only green mixed with confusion and an elegant oblivion. Then Castiel pulled away and wondered whether or not he could possibly settle for partial perfection.

"Fuck it," was Castiel's response. "I like it dark." He removed his shirt and descended upon Dean's submissive form. He remained silent as Castiel straddled his lap, took a thick fistful of Dean's hair, yanked his head back, and engulfed his lips. His hips pressed into Dean's stomach and drew back, repeating and mimicking the dive and retreat of his tongue.

He flattened Dean's hands to his chest and forced them to feel and stroke and caress. Dean's palms were so warm, so soft. Castiel's active imagination aided him in believing that his hands traveled trails of Dean's creation. He imagined that they way in which they circled his waist and embraced him was solely of Dean's volition, and not his own.

Since Castiel could only stomach forcing Dean's hands to do so much, he finally rose, his hooded eyes watching Dean as Dean watched him. Castiel reached for his belt and unfastened his pants. He shoved his hand inside, palming himself with a grind of his teeth. He continued doing so, up and down, grind and stare, until he spilled across his wrist, shoulders jerking inward. Dean held his gaze without watching.

Castiel's hands felt so cold.

Dean looked better today, and Castiel was especially uplifted by the sight of him in the hallway. It had been nearly two months since his breakup with the Braeden girl. It was about fucking time. Dean loped between the rows of lockers, headed to the lunch room like the rest of the Senior class. His lips were pulled up into a small grin that made Castiel's chest feel airy and light. Castiel intercepted him with a smile and clap on his back.

Dean seemed to stiffen at the contact, his smile withering ever so slightly.

"Wanna' go see a movie tonight?" Castiel asked as he sat. It was a Friday and he figured, given Dean's good mood, that maybe a night out might do them both some good.

Dean rested one arm on the table and looked away, muttering, "Not tonight." His eyes were glued to the large doors of the room, watching the people swarm their way through.

"That's cool," Castiel supposed, a little disappointed.

They never went out.

"We could go down to the river or something, Or Port Angeles?" Castiel suggested with a hopeful shrug.

But Dean didn't answer because, at that moment, Lisa Braeden walked through the doors, met Dean's gaze and began walking to their table with a timid smile. Castiel's eyes narrowed as his hand sought Dean's beneath the table. He grasped it possessively, his malignant stare cutting and obtuse.

Dean jerked his hand away, straightening his back as he greeted, "Hey, Lisa" He smiled at her. It wasn't a small grin or hollow or forced. It tucked inward and curled around his face, lifted his cheeks and brightened his eyes.

"Are you sure it's okay to sit here?" she asked Dean, biting her lip anxiously as she regarded the seething form before them. Clearly, Castiel made absolutely no attempt to hide his ire.

"No. It's not oh-fucking-kay if you sit here. Get lost—" Castiel snapped, feeling quite pleased at her obvious flinch.

"Shut up, Castiel," Dean warned in a hard voice. "I asked her to sit with me. If you don't like it, then we'll go somewhere else."

As Castiel moved his stare to Dean, Lisa slowly lowered herself to the seat beside him. Dean's face was a facade of calm, but Castiel could sense the anger that brewed just beneath the surface.

It was the most emotion Dean had shown in months.

"Why would you do that?" Castiel breathed, his throat unbearably tight. He wanted to match and exceed Dean's anger with his own, but found himself incapable. He was much too afraid to feel anything else.

"Because I want to eat lunch with my _girlfriend_." Dean's jaw was taut and defiant, his eyes challenging and yet final. When he turned to Lisa, every inch of him softened and glowed.

Castiel simply couldn't believe it. "Wh—What?" he stuttered, incredulous. "You're calling this... this... _slut_—" They both winced. "—your fucking _girlfriend_ again?" Beneath Castiel's skin, his blood boiled. It simmered and scorched until his fingertips felt numb.

Dean's fist came down on the table with a blunt "bang" that drew stares. "Don't you talk _ever_ about her like that," Dean spat, lips curled back into a daring sneer.

Castiel removed his gaze from Dean, locked his jaw, and turned it on Lisa. His Castiel-colored eyes narrowed. "Whore, slut, bitch, cunt, ugly fucki—" But Castiel did not finish, because Dean had a healthy fistful of Castiel's shirt, yanking him forward.

"I said, don't you _ever_ fucking talk about her like that!" The entire room seemed to be watching now, Castiel's face only inches from Dean. He stared at him blankly as Dean smoldered and puffed. His green eyes were so enraged, nearly murderous. Castiel had never seen anything like it, simply sat, gaping at the image of utter vehemence before him.

Castiel wanted to kiss Dean in that moment, more than any other. He didn't want a _partial_ Dean. An empty Dean. An Dean who kissed him while wanting _her._ Castiel licked his lips instinctively, feeling an impossible draw to Dean's seething mouth, longed to steal a little portion of passion that was intended for Lisa, not him.

"You promised," Dean forbade with a flash of alarm.

Castiel felt so sick.

So quickly was Castiel's anger disrupted and swallowed by a tidal wave of grief that it stole his breath. "You never—" He gasped for air, licking his lips furiously. "You never care when they talk about me. You never say a fucking word, and I don't even deserve it, like her... You never—" And Dean's eyes dimmed, so trivial a gesture as he released Castiel and looked away, a flicker of shame.

Castiel had been abandoned by Dean before, but this felt so much worse. In the recesses of his mind, Castiel wondered why? Hadn't he been preparing himself? No, he realized. These last months with Dean had given him the falsest sense of security. With every kiss that Dean didn't deny him, Castiel had unknowingly fortified a counterfeit niche in Dean's heart. Seeing the contrast between _this_ Dean—Lisa's Dean—and the Dean Castiel had been with for weeks was undeniable proof.

"We should sit somewhere else," Dean eventually whispered to Lisa, who sat staring back and forth, confused and stricken.

"You never—" Castiel repeated, still incapable of concluding his thought, of speaking the words aloud, of making them tangible. But Dean and Lisa—his _girlfriend_—were already rising from their seats and turning their backs on him.

He could hear the two walking away, could discern the soft, quiet tenor of their voices as he sat motionless, staring unseeingly at the table. After a moment, his chest felt so tight that he thought he might suffocate. He pulled air into his lungs in starved gasps, felt his lips tingle with numb and cold and the memory of Dean's never-sincere kisses.

No, Castiel reminded himself. They were never Dean's kisses. They were always Castiel's. Dean just accepted, but never took and never gave. With every passing second, Castiel's quiet wheezing grew louder, sharper, until he heard an alarmed voice.

"Oh my God! Are you okay?" He didn't know whose voice this belonged to, didn't care.

He didn't regard them as his hand clutched his chest where Dean's had, his stomach doubling over as his eyes grew warm, blurry. There was something of a twisting within, the room seeming to spin around him as the cacophony of lunch room voices invaded his head and distorted into indecipherable chatter. Still his eyes grew warmer, fuzzier as he struggled for air. He wondered if he might go blind.

When the tears fell, Castiel was shockingly startled. They dribbled onto the table inches from his face like awkward and fat raindrops, spattering and swelling. Castiel felt hands on his shoulders and knew they belonged to Dean, could smell his cologne and hear his rushed questions, could feel his sheer lack of affection.

"Castiel? What's happening?" Dean's asked, shaking his shoulders.

But Castiel did not answer. He could only repeat the same two words, over and over and over, like dark, jagged hymn.

"You never—" _loved me._

When he stood, it was oddly, physically painful and he groaned in discomfort. He didn't want to be standing straight like this. It sent shockwaves of pain down his chest and stomach and he simply had to escape. He had to put as much distance between himself and his own unutterable words. He hoped the farther he got, the less true they'd become.

Castiel wasn't that stupid.

He shrugged himself away from Dean, could see the look of panic mingled with pity in his expression as Castiel fled the room. The image of Dean's face as Castiel clamored through the double doors would be forever etched into Castiel's memory as the moment he realized exactly what he was to Dean Winchester: a discarded toy, a boyhood pet, a bygone, a stigma. His dirtiest little fucking secret.

Castiel didn't stop. Instead, he ran the entire way home. When the rain came, it penetrated the cotton of his shirt, the denim of his jeans, and the fragility of his flesh. He felt translucent, crystalline. His tears came in short, errant surges that he could find no rhyme or reason to.

When he grew too tried to run, he jogged. When he grew too tired to jog, he walked. When he grew too tired to walk, he chanted. When he entered the empty house, he trodded up to his dark, scarlet room and stood before the bed he had kissed Dean upon, not even twelve hours ago. The bed that his white knight had saved him from, time and time again.

Castiel slid himself beneath it.

* * *

Okay so this is the end and i know this might not be the ending you expected it to be but i hope you saw what i see when i think about Dean and cas as a couple.

hope you enjoyed it. leave a review about what you thought.

im thinking about writing another fic also in which there will b a HEA . so if you want you can keep your eyes out for it.

Lots of love .


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